by Amal Awad
“Exactly. So it’s not like it’s such a big deal if I do one thing I wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
Obviously something was up because Cate rarely questioned anything. She was a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kinda gal. And her life was exciting, even when not measuring it against my own. She was like my own real-life Grey’s Anatomy character, except she was a journalist not a gifted surgeon. Although I’m pretty sure she dated a surgeon once. It may have been an eye surgeon come to think of it.
“What’s going on, Cate?”
“Okay, ladies, now you’re going to slowly position your feet like so,” the instructor said, pointing at her own feet. “Do not look behind you. Just hold onto the rope and lean back.”
I was feeling uneasy and I felt my face taking on that familiar panic-stricken sheen. Cate seemed unperturbed, easily leaning back. “Nothing’s going on,” she replied.
“Samira, concentrate. Lean back, take your time,” said the instructor. I smiled awkwardly, my stomach throbbing with anxiety. Easy for the instructor to say, she’d probably done this a thousand times. I knew she was doing her best to make me feel at ease, but it was rapidly morphing into a mammoth task. So I kept talking, hoping it would assist in allaying my fears. And stop me from looking down so much. Why was I doing that?
“No really, Cate. I can tell something’s up. You look guilty,” I said, leaning back a scratch.
“No, I’m just being thoughtful and meditative,” she said, with a gasp.
We were slowing starting to make our way down. I wasn’t as surefooted as Cate. I made tiny movements, inching my way down ever so slowly.
“You can jump out a bit, ladies! This cliff is not your base! Jump away from your fears!” yelled the instructor.
Not this again. Cate jumped out with ease and back to the cliff face again. I attempted it but lost my nerve and ended up swinging from the rope instead. I tried to stop true panic from making an impromptu appearance. I could do this, I reminded myself, trying not to think of the rock-climbing incident.
Still swinging, I looked down and saw Jeff standing nearby in a retro tracksuit. He had his hands clasped at the small of his back. At least the strange blonde man from the other team wasn’t with him. That’s the last thing I would have welcomed about now. Although, it seems a bit silly to say that given, out of all of the things in the world that could happen, no doubt there would be a million other things less appealing. For example, I’d hardly want to be in the dentist’s chair about now. Or working in a bottle factory. Or-.
“Samina. Concentrate!” yelled Jeff.
Perfect.
“Samina!” he said again for no particular reason.
While my life might have flashed before my eyes on the flying fox, team building was bringing things, work-wise, full circle. I hadn’t managed to stop swinging, and by now I was panting from the exertion. And there was some slight but undeniable panic taking hold despite my best efforts to remain calm. As I looked down at Jeff, my first day at the magazine came roaring back to me. Kind of like one of those flashbacks in Lost. Without the music, the beautiful people and the insane island, of course.
On my first day, I’d worn new shoes. I remembered them because they were lovely Robert Robert ones I’d bought to celebrate the new job. Wearing hijab could present its challenges in the clothing department, modesty requirements et al. Not such a problem with shoes and bags. Oh, and accessories.
The secretary had mysteriously warned me that “Jeffrey Phillips’s bark is worse than his bite” before I went in. When I walked into his office, he turned around from his position at the window and gave me a long, estimating look. He was of medium-height and chubby, with features that did nothing to soften the intense look in his bright hazel eyes. He wore tailored pants, a white business shirt and a brown tie he hadn’t done up properly.
All I could think in those first few moments was that I was standing in front of David Brent from The Office. There was definitely something Ricky Gervais about him, in expression more than appearance.
Jeff began rattling off the magazine’s history, as well as a bit of his own. He had my name completely wrong, but before I could correct him, he charged headlong like a bull at Pamplona. The conversation, in a signal of things to come, proceeded thus.
“Do you shake hands with men, Samina? I don’t like shaking hands with anybody. But sometimes you have to. Will that be a problem, Samina?”
I didn’t even have a chance to reply that it wouldn’t.
“Jolly good. Samina. Things are pretty straightforward here. Nine am I want my coffee. Black. No milk. No sugar. Just black.”
“What do you call that thing you’re wearing?”
“It’s a headscarf.”
“Headscarf? What? I bloody know that. What do you call it in your country?”
“My country?”
“Yes, where are you from anyway?”
“I was born in Australia, but my parents are Palestinian,” I said.
“Palestinian? Bloody shame what’s happening over there. Right. Where was I? You will have to go out on location a lot, Samina. You will be assisting me, but occasionally you will be asked to assist other editors if needed. Got it? But most importantly, my coffee, Samina. I like my coffee black and strong and at nine am in the morning.”
As opposed to 9 am in the evening?!
“We’re a team here, Samina. We communicate, we work together and we get along.” Suddenly his telephone rang and he picked it up without skipping a breath.
“Yes? Goddamn it, Marcus! I told you I hate that font. Hate it!” He hung up, and looked at me.
“So what do you call that thing?”
“My heads-?”
“Yes, the headscarf.”
“It’s called a hijab,” I answered politely.
“I like the colour.” (Blue with glittery threads throughout.)
“Thank you.”
“Jeff. Call me Jeff.”
“Thank you, Jeff.”
“Any questions? Good. Samina. I want you to feel that you can always come to me if there are any problems. Remember that, okay? Do you like coffee?”
“Well-.”
“Jesus Christ, Samina. You don’t like coffee?”
“I-.”
“Now go and find Penelope. She’ll show you around and help you get started. Good to have you here, Samina.”
And now, hundreds of instant coffees later, Jeff was calling out to me. I thought I heard the instructor too.
“Bloody concentrate!” called Jeff.
Oh, blonde man and co were back. Wonderful, an audience.
This was much worse than that mortifying embarrassment you feel when you’re running late for the bus and you make a mad sprint for it before it pulls out from the kerb – knowing all the while that the passengers are watching entranced, mentally wagering whether you’ll make it.
“Okay, I’m going out for dinner with someone,” said Cate who had stopped abseiling and was waiting for me half a metre below.
I could hear birds. It also felt a little humid. Or was that just my panic? No, the sky had turned a foreboding grey. It was likely to begin raining at any moment.
“So? What’s the big deal about a dinner?” I said, slightly out of breath.
I tried to push my way back into position, pushing the thought of the spectators below firmly from my mind. The instructor was calmly imparting instructions while Jeff looked up at us and yelled again, “Concentrate!”
“No big deal,” said Cate.
I knew it was difficult for her to comprehend my lifestyle sometimes. Dating was such an integral part of her life. She couldn’t imagine not doing it. But even though it was all around me, I’d just never lived like that, which is why I was always willing to listen to her experiences. It was very educational. Although Lara’s guidance (“boys suck”) was useful, I’d gained some useful insight into the opposite sex based on Cate’s dealings with them.
“Never look too anxious for them to
call. If he doesn’t, don’t send him a text message then pretend it was meant for someone else. Don’t accidentally call him then pretend you meant to dial your mum,” she advised after one particular failed relationship.
I was actually glad I never had to really worry about that kind of thing, because even when I’d gotten to know someone myself, it was never proper dating.
Despite a few similarities, I figured I had the better deal. Awkwardness was minimal with Austen era-style courtship. There were rules and behaviours. Better still, everyone involved knew and understood them. Dating wasn’t so clear-cut.
“Who are you having dinner with?” I said, finally back in place. I certainly wasn’t going to attempt more fancy jumps.
“Nobody,” said Cate.
“Good work, Samira!” said the instructor. “Just take your time, and remember, this is a trust and releasing exercise. We’re purging!” She pumped her fist in a gesture of victory.
“Cate?” I said, looking to my side while trying to maintain my balance. I was not letting go of that rope for anything. I was more than willing to hold everyone up, too. And let them all stare, I thought a little radically.
They were probably all laughing at me. Heartless creeps.
Then I realised that they probably weren’t even able to see me properly because there were so many trees. Whatever. At this point my primary objective was to make it to the bottom in one piece, and I considered it a fairly important objective.
“Marcus,” said Cate eventually.
“Who’s Marcus?”
Cate let go of her rope and put her head in her hands and whimpered.
“Oh. Oh! Marcus Marcus?” I lost my balance again and started swinging, again.
“Samina! Concentrate!” said Jeff, who had moved closer to us to get a better view of our progress. Cate nodded into her hands, not even bothered that she wasn’t holding onto her rope.
“Don’t judge me,” she mumbled.
I looked down. Jeff was still standing at ease. God, the tracksuit.
“I won’t. But now why are we doing this exactly?” I was still swinging, not even sure who to listen to anymore. Or where to look. Thank God no one was filming this. I’d end up on Funniest Home Videos for sure. Or worse, YouTube then Facebook. It would become a viral sensation and I’d be asked to go on some American talk show and re-enact the whole disastrous thing.
“He asked me,” said Cate.
“Okay, but there’s that part where you can say ‘no’. Like when I get proposed to and I don’t see a future. I say no.” I heaved my way back to the cliff face. For a brief moment, I realised it was actually starting to be fun. The swinging that is, not the actual abseiling.
“I know he’s annoying, but he’s actually kind of nice, and he buys me chocolates every so often. It’s not like we’re getting married,” Cate pointed out. She repositioned herself before easily completing the abseil down. She was obviously proficient in this, something she’d neglected to mention before I agreed to be her partner.
I’d had enough. I’d purged enough. I’d faced my fears. Now I just wanted to be standing on solid ground. I couldn’t be bothered to do it properly. I shimmied the rest of the way down.
“Well done, Samira!” said the instructor over the edge, relief marking her features. I assumed there was always one like me in the group: the one who got stuck at the top of the flying fox, and the one who swung her way down the cliff face rather than abseiled.
“Okay, Cate.” I unclasped my helmet and passed it to one of the instructors on the ground.
“He’s just so pretty,” she whimpered. This was truly my cue to exit the conversation. I didn’t mind hearing Cate’s date stories, but Marcus was an entirely different proposition. I knew him, I worked with him, I had to face his endless rounds of questions.
In a twisted sort of way, it made sense – he would probably be an improvement on the guys Cate usually dated. Marcus, despite his annoying tendencies (and we all had them), was a gentleman. He opened doors for the girls at work. He’d offer to buy coffees for everyone when he was going out to buy one for himself. He’d stay behind without complaint to help Cate when she was running late for a deadline, and she was always late.
“Well, I hope it goes well?” I said, leaning over and taking a deep breath.
“I’ll let you know. But it’s not a date!” Cate assured me.
“Okay. Keep repeating that to yourself and it might become true.”
“Cate. Samina. Well done,” said Jeff as we walked past.
“Thanks, Jeff,” we sang in unison.
I looked ahead of us at the group from the other office and, sure enough, the blonde man was there and he was looking in my direction. As we approached them, one of the men in the group acknowledged Cate, so we stopped.
I waited a couple of metres to the side while she chatted with him, feeling a little embarrassed, my arms folded, and my face already a deep red from the abseiling exertion. There really should be warning labels on the ropes and helmets or something. Caution: Strenuous activity ahead; potential humiliation. Warning: This is why gym membership should be compulsory. Things like that.
I pretended to be concentrating, although I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to be concentrating on. Just playing it cool. Blonde man didn’t exist. There was no awkwardness whatsoever. He hadn’t been looking at me earlier and I hadn’t seen him not looking at me.
Except that he did exist and I could tell he was still sort of looking at me and I have to say, it was a touch unnerving. I looked around, feigning interest in the trees. They were fairly remarkable. Very tall. I assumed rather old.
“Assalamu ’alaykum.”
A little startled, I stopped pretending to concentrate and looked up to locate the person behind the voice.
Blonde man. Huh.
“Wa’alaykum assalam,” I said, doing my best not to look surprised.
He must have Muslim friends, I thought. It wasn’t highly unusual to have non-Muslims sending out a salam on occasion. It was either that or a curious old lady might ask about my hijab while I was sandwiched between commuters on the 6.30 bus.
As though reading my thoughts, the man eventually said, “I am Muslim.” He was looking slightly amused again. The cheek. Well, how was I supposed to know?
I must have looked taken aback because he added hastily, “I didn’t want you to think I was mocking you or something.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that.” It hadn’t occurred to me that he could have been taking the mickey at all, I just assumed he was being nice.
“Okay, good,” he said. After a beat, he added, “I wasn’t expecting to see a girl in hijab here.”
“Yes, well, I wasn’t expecting to meet a blonde Muslim man here,” I said. Not that his blondeness ruled out Muslimness, to be fair, given Islam was a religion, not an ethnicity. And even then, it didn’t determine much.
“It wasn’t an insult,” he clarified.
“That’s alright. I don’t expect that it’s very common,” I agreed.
“Where are you from?”
“Would it be a really obvious joke if I said Sydney?”
“Definitely.”
“I’m Palestinian. How about you?”
By now we were standing apart from the rest of the group, even though I didn’t think we had actually moved. Cate was a couple of metres away, still chatting to her friend.
“Lebanese,” he said.
That did surprise me. I wasn’t expecting him to be Arab. There was the blonde hair for starters. But with his features he could easily have passed for a European of some kind. He was nice-looking. Clean-cut. No beard.
I was pretty flabbergasted by this point. A little intrigued, too. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a period film.
“Do you have a name?” he said.
“No, my parents never gave me one. Caused a lot of trauma.” Quickly remembering myself, I said, more formally, “My name is Samira.”
�
�An entertaining companion, huh?” he said, in reference to the meaning of my name.
“More of a great conversationalist, I’d like to think.”
“Yes,” he said, a slight glimmer of amusement in his eyes, a hint of a smile forming.
“Well, I gave you mine,” I said, cheeks burning. “What’s yours?”
“Menem,” he replied.
“That’s not a very common name. Quite unusual actually.”
I’d never even heard of it.
“You can thank my parents,” he told me. “I’ve struggled to be ordinary.”
“I feel for you. Are you extraordinary?”
“Depends on what you consider extraordinary,” said Menem sensibly.
“Well, are we talking superhuman abilities or terrifying hang-ups that eventually lead to vigilantism?”
“Neither,” he laughed. “I’m very ordinary actually.”
“So am I.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” said Menem. “And you did well. Abseiling isn’t as easy as it looks.”
I’d just been thinking that myself! I wasn’t crazy then! Oh God, but he couldn’t see me, could he?
“I couldn’t see you properly, don’t worry,” he said, once again reading my mind.
I relaxed more. “Well, I made it down, although I don’t think it was exactly the correct method.”
Menem raised his eyebrows.
“I improvised,” I added.
He grinned. “Shimmying can work.”
How did he know?!
“You did have a little trouble on the flying fox though,” he said, eyes twinkling, etc.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it trouble, per se,” I mumbled, blushing profusely and tensing up a bit.
“True,” said Menem. “You did it in the end. That’s what’s important.”
But I realised he wasn’t being nasty, he truly seemed to mean it. Nevertheless, still blushing. Still so, so embarrassed. Damn you, True Blue. Damn you and your self-empowerment and overcoming fears and all that other junk. I was perfectly content carrying around emotional baggage and being angst-ridden. Normality is just over-rated.
“Yeah, I guess. Did you go up as well?” I asked once my humiliation had taken its leave. (“Cheerio!” it called. “Great seeing you again. Until next time then!”)